


A Winter's Poem

by Neila_Nuruodo



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bondage, F/F, Kneeling, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Temperature Play, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23936962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neila_Nuruodo/pseuds/Neila_Nuruodo
Summary: In the wake of Nabriales's destruction, Igeyorhm, worried at this new development, seeks out the Warrior of Light.  An exchange of information gradually becomes more.AU, though it also serves to explain how the Warrior of Light knows Igeyorhm's name when they meet after Bismarck's defeat.
Relationships: Igeyorhm/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26
Collections: May-U Fic Exchange 2020





	A Winter's Poem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JanuaryBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanuaryBlue/gifts).



> One million crystals  
> Not enough to page your beauty  
> Beauty of your soul  
> -"A Winter's Poem," Leaves' Eyes
> 
> May-U Fic Exchange gift for JanuaryBlue! (I hope you like it!)

It's like a lingering pressure, almost a low-grade headache, throbbing behind your eyes. All day has it haunted you, unfading. Herbal teas and tinctures have had no effect.

A part of you knew they wouldn't.

Some darkness shadows your every step, following flawlessly even though you go out of your way to teleport a few times when not strictly necessary. You are being watched. Hardly surprising; it has scarce been a day since you slew Nabriales. Since… since your memorial for Moenbryda, no body even to bury, just mementos laid upon cherished ground. Whatever it is lingers out of range; you cannot pinpoint it, cannot more than guess a vague direction.

A part of you wishes it would show itself. The waiting, the wondering, rankles. Combat would be far preferable. You’re _good_ at that, at least. But it is small wonder that this presence is leery of you. Eventually you set aside your duties for the day. Sleep, you suspect, will remain elusive until this is resolved.

The solitude of Coerthas seems a fitting place to try and draw out your tail. Remote, calm, and with the extra-sharp chill of night there is little chance of people being about and less of any venturing so far from the watchfires, least of all to the clifftop rumored to be the behemoth’s lair. For a time you stand, listening to the wind howl and moan, the soft skitter of ice crystals dashed upon the ground about you. The night sends chill fingers creeping into your clothing, pressing past warm outer layers as the dark deepens gradually. Unwilling to show impatience, you ignore the discomfort. Finally the darkness coalesces nearby, and you turn, one hand reaching to your weapon.

An Ascian stands on the snow several paces away; moonlight glints off golden spires rising over the figure’s shoulders. The red mask is nearly black in the darkness; below its low point, the wan light illuminates a pale chin.

“So you are the Bringer of Light.” The voice is female—low and rich. You blink. “I am Igeyorhm.” She offers a perfunctory bow. “You may release your weapon; I come not to offer violence.”

For a moment your hand lingers, uncertain of the wisdom of trusting the word of an Ascian. But you haven't any more white auracite at the moment, so while you will defend yourself in the face of violence there seems little point in pressing an attack. And… it is possible she is telling the truth, you allow. Perhaps these devils will be more accommodating now that they surely know you can end them permanently. Slowly your hand slips to rest once more at your side. 

“I must admit you baffle me. I have watched you all day. You are remarkable, yes, but I yet struggle to believe you could overcome Nabriales.” She paces closer to the cliff’s edge, an oblique line toward you; you hold your ground, turning to keep her beneath your gaze. "Yet he is gone; there is no question of that. Have you some new ally? A weapon? Trickery?" She fair hisses the last.

You fold your arms. "I am not of the inclination to tell you." Your bravado is at least part show; you are not eager to enter another major struggle so soon after the last. But if you should manage to provoke some key tidbit of information from this Igeyorhm…

By her chuckle, she takes no offense at your recalcitrance. "Have you then the ability to strike me down, too?" She turns to face you, spreading her arms. "I am your adversary, no? Go ahead; end me."

_If you can_ lingers unspoken in the air between you.

And of course you cannot; the siphon rests in your pack, but there are no corrupted crystals near enough to use. Your own crystals of light yet lie dormant, silent and grey. And even if you could make a blade of light, you would need more auracite.

“You think me some kind of monster? A murderer, to strike down one who has not offered violence? You said yourself you were not here to fight.”

Below the mask, her lips stretch in a smile. “So I did. I was curious to see if you might believe me.”

“I will not hesitate to defend myself, should you offer violence. But…” you sigh. “I have had my fill of death for now.”

The cowl tilts. “Does it grieve you to take life? Even that of your enemies?”

“That is a luxury I cannot afford. But I lost someone in the struggle.”

She drifts closer, seeming almost ethereal. If her footsteps make any sound, you cannot hear it beneath the soft murmur of the wind. “Then it seems we have both lost a comrade.” Silence grows. “If I come to you in peace, I will not do you violence. Conflict may be inevitable between us.” A pregnant pause. “Or perhaps it will not be. But you may rest assured in this, at least.”

_Then it seems we have both lost a comrade…_ Something in the delivery nags at you. Not quite mournful, but… "In that case, why have you been following me? If not to strike me down in retaliation for Nabriales?"

"To learn of you. To try and puzzle you out.”

“And what is it you hope to learn?”

Her teeth show in an avaricious grin; a few more steps bring her within arms’ reach of you. “How such a thing might even be possible. Peace,” she freezes your words in your mouth with a raised hand, “I understand you must hesitate to divulge this. But surely you realize you know little and less of we Ascians, no?”

You fold your arms. “Are you proposing an exchange of information?”

“I am.” Her lips curve, coy. “I have given you my name… will you consider doing the same? To make it a true exchange.”

You consider. If she hasn’t learned it simply from watching you, she will soon enough. You see no harm in it. Something in the way you deliver it, though, the way it almost seems to linger in the cloud of condensation released along with the sound, seems to snag her interest. One gloved hand comes up, slow. You keep your eyes fixed to her mask’s gloomy gaze, refusing to react even as the icy metal backs of her claws _just_ graze your cheek.

“A pleasure it is,” she murmurs. “We shall meet again, Bringer of Light. Give thought to what knowledge you might consider precious.”

As shadows swell to whisk her away, the wind kicks up, spinning a faint swirl of snow crystals into your face. When you blink your eyes open once more, she is gone, any sign of her presence already eradicated by the drifting snow.

  
  


* * *

She returns to you. At first you keep her at a distance, and you speak only of trivialities. She is, to some surprise and more pleasure, true to her word; each time she arrives she promises your safety, and she does not violate her word. You cannot help but warm to her as you speak more.

As you get to know her—not just learning about the Ascians, but _Igeyorhm_ in particular.

She is an engaging conversation partner, alternately coy and frank as the subject matter changes. Never does she let you forget that she is dangerous, but all the same you find yourself trusting her. Find yourself looking forward to her visits, seeking time to yourself, in solitude, when she might take the opportunity to steal a few hours with you. You relish more than just the knowledge you gain. There is an honesty to speaking thus with an adversary, for you know what she wants—information. The same thing you seek. Almost it feels like friendship; certainly you soon grow closer to her than to any of the Scions.

After all, you rarely get so much as a “how do you do” from them. Igeyorhm, on the other hand, seems fascinated with you. She asks you of yourself, she listens with clear interest, and she seems to genuinely care. Somehow, despite being an enemy, she becomes a _friend._

It startles you, the first time she touches you. Just a careful brush of knuckles over your shoulder, nothing threatening, though you jump like a coeurl kit. But her smiling response, while amused, is indulgent—no sign of mocking or scorn. Soon you are accustomed to the contact. In fact, you find yourself… almost craving it. There are so few who _touch_ you—by the Twelve, if someone in the markets bumps against you before recognizing you, it’s naught but horrified stammering apologies.

It is… nice… to be touched intentionally and fearlessly. Before long, you muster your courage, reach out to brush fingertips down _her_ arm. It is a powerful feeling, to see her thaw, warm toward you in response. Over time, you do it more, and grow comfortable with it. She takes it as encouragement, or so you assume when she shifts in what you are coming to recognize as her quiet decisive way from mere touches to deeper embraces, and then, with a deftness that steals your breath, to abruptly sealing her lips upon yours.

Yes, you think as your head swims from the taste of her, as you forgo air for more, this is most certainly _nice._

* * *

  
  


You nearly falter as you begin your attack upon Ravana, for you sense Igeyorhm abruptly nearby. Quickly you recover your aplomb, spurred by the warm creeping presence of darkness to push just a bit harder, to press your limits to the fullest. You are not disappointed; before long the Lord of the Hive falls at your feet, yielding to your might and recognizing you as the victor. You linger hopefully, urging Ysayle ahead of you, promising to meet up after seeing to matters here.

The soft clatter of fleeing Gnath soon fades to leave you in solitude.

Your neck cranes about, searching; you can feel her, but she is distant enough that you cannot pinpoint her. But your heart jumps into your throat as she appears in front of you—not fear; no. Your pulse races. Her lips curve.

“Once more you achieve the impossible… Bringer of Light.” You shiver as her claws brush your cheek, just. The hand pauses, draws back to grasp her mask by the low point. Surprise blooms as she removes it, showing you her face for the first time.

Your eyes greedily trace fine features—not fully delicate; aristocratic. Strong but eminently feminine. The faintest gloss sheens her lips, drawing your eye to linger. When you raise your gaze to her eyes, you find them a frigid, almost ethereal green. They are fixed on you, riveted not to your own eyes, you realize, but lower.

And… despite their cool appearance, her eyes are _burning._

It seems your attention (your admiration?) was all she awaited, for no sooner do your eyes find hers than she begins to lean closer. Heat blossoms upon your cheeks. She is unhurried, confident; _almost_ you would say she toys with you, but she does not leave you wanting long. She tastes faintly of mint, and you open your mouth.

She takes the invitation; her tongue glides in to taste you as well. You sigh in pleasure, letting yourself relax against her as she winds her arms around you. Your hands glide over fine fabric, tracing the raised designs on her capelet as you explore your way down her figure to find her breasts. You start to part her robes, wanting to be closer, but then stop on realizing you still stand in the heart of Gnath territory.

She makes a pleased sound and pulls back to admire her work. You can guess how you look—flushed both from battle and from the kiss, with your hair in a state of partial disarray as well from the same; glaze-eyed, red-lipped and panting. Your face warms further at the thought, but her hands come up to cup your face, cooling you.

“Lovely,” she murmurs, and there is no denying the satisfaction in her tone. She lets her hands drop to catch your wrists, pulling them up, over your head, together. Transferring them both to one hand, the other waves through some swift gesture. Dark energy springs from it, stretching out, up from her hand. You gasp as it winds about your wrists. It does not feel like rope; there is pressure, but instead of fibrous texture it moves, almost writhing, and prickles with energy.

You lick your lips. “Am I safe today?” you whisper, your voice rough.

She chuckles, the sound dark with intent. “Yes,” she breathes, and her lips capture yours once more. She is still grinning when she draws back. “You are safe today, my warrior. Do you trust me?”

Heart pounding, eyes wide, you give a rapid nod. “Yes,” you say, urgent, when she pauses, canting her head to look at you. The answer pleases her, judging by her wicked smirk. Without warning, darkness seizes you. You gasp in shock, and the icy darkness snatches the air from your lungs. It lasts less than a blink before you reappear somewhere high, still in the hive but on an inaccessible—and more saliently, well-concealed—perch.

Unusually, she is hasty, hands seizing upon and removing your outerwear the moment you arrive. It is not unwelcome by any means, but…

“Is everything all right?”

She pauses in the act of loosing your pants, regarding you quizzically.

“You seem to be in something of a hurry.”

She laughs. “Forgive me. I quite enjoyed watching your battle with Ravana.” Her hands return to their tasks, though distraction makes them slower. Her eyes sear into yours. “It is a joy to watch you fight. Even since I met you, your might has grown measurably.” She chuckles. “I find it enthralling.” All efforts to strip you forgotten in this moment, she leans in, pressing you against the rough mud-daub wall. She kisses you, and this time it is possessive. Demanding. She does not wait for invitation, plundering your mouth, hungry. Soon her hands again succeed in slipping loose your clothing.

You groan as the last article falls away and she presses into its absence. Metal ornaments awaken goosebumps across your flesh despite the warm, nearly stifling vapors of the hive, the edged press and drag over your skin wringing a gasp from you. Her hands draw down your back, the barest trail of metal over you making you straighten and press further into the finely chased fabric over her breasts.

“Tell me how this feels,” she murmurs. Fire springs to life in your cheeks, but you raise your eyes to hers.

“My heart is racing,” you gasp. She smiles. “I know we cannot be seen here, but… the thought… and it is so hot in here already.”

She chuckles. “Mayhap I could remedy that.” Her taloned fingers bracket your face, and you twitch; somehow the metal is icy, a startling contrast to your surroundings. She draws her hands down, down, down… past your chin, along your neck, over your collarbone. In their wake your skin is coated with wisps of ice, bare thin feathers that melt almost immediately to leave slowly-warming beads of moisture upon you. Your neck cranes down to watch as her fingers swirl about your breasts, and your breath catches.

The reverence of her fingers upon you, the tender care and press of each digit, awakens awe in your soul; your eyes are fixed upon the sight of the black-and-silver of metal-chased leather gloves where they caress you. The claws press, careful, dimpling you, _just_ pricking you. At your helpless, breathy sound she raises her head, and near-glowing eyes lock upon your own.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, and brushes cool lips over yours for a tantalizing second. You try to follow as she pulls back, thwarted by the dark energy holding your arms aloft. She smiles, pleased. “Are you still _hot,_ Warrior?”

“Yes,” you whisper, licking your lips.

Again her hands sweep down you, beginning at the sides of your ribs and sliding down, curving over your abdomen to meet below your navel. Gleaming ice trails each, feather-like wisps, heartbreakingly ephemeral in their beauty. Your flesh warms them, thawing them to mundane water, goosebumps marching down you as your stolen warmth begins to evaporate the beaded droplets. Each touch marks you as her canvas, as she paints upon you only for the demands of living flesh to repudiate her art. It does not stop her from doing it again.

When her hands gently part your thighs, the ice does not follow. Her touch is cold enough you find yourself grateful, and with the water still trailed over your skin you no longer burn and pant from the heat. No; it is her touch which has your chest heaving, your body flushing, as you _feel_ her glove burn away into pure aether, leaving cool fingers now resting on your intimate flesh.

At her coaxing you shift your weight onto one leg, balance no issue with your arms suspended (with her body so close against your own—she has promised your safety, and you know she will not let you fall) and free the other for her to reposition. Her gloved hand cups it, talons biting in as she lifts you enough to spread you. You let free a cry as her naked fingers stroke along your entrance, finding you wet and ready, working your natural moisture about until she glides over you and then abruptly _in._

Her mouth slants over yours to swallow your hoarse shout. Your hips buck against her hand as she probes you, fingers drawing slowly back each time, curling, beckoning, until she releases your mouth and your head falls to leave you sobbing against her shoulder. Need coils within you, like spiderweb-strong strands winding about your hips, your abdomen, drawing you tighter with each targeted movement she makes. Her thumb now works its way up to your bud, swirling once; her hand’s movement within you makes it rock over your swollen flesh. Small whimpers build in your throat as your body ripples now, muscles seizing and releasing at her command.

“I would hear my name from you lips,” she demands, and through your bliss you fight to raise your heavy head. Her eyes are slitted, fixed on you; her lips more pink and plump than usual, lightly parted. Her color rides high as well, delicate patterns of red staining her fine cheekbones and washing downward.

“Igeyorhm,” you gasp, and as she huffs a needy breath and her eyes burn yet darker, you repeat, _“Igeyorhm!”_

“Ah,” she groans, “Warrior—”

Her name is wrenched once more from your throat, distorted this time beyond hope of recognition as your peak seizes you, crushing the air from you, contorting you in her grasp and stealing your sight, leaving you in a whirling haze of bliss. You writhe against her, and her fingers continue to stroke, to press against your front wall, to beckon you to your finish until you can only sob for air with soft, half-broken sounds, until she releases the spell that wracks you from within. Her arm curves now around you, holding you close to her chest; again the fine cloth and arcane designs press against your now hypersensitive skin. Slowly you recover as she strokes your back, murmuring tender praise against the shell of your ear. Your face heats again when you finally raise your head, but you find her smiling warmly, an edge of hunger to her satisfied smile.

“You are as gorgeous in passion as you are in battle.”

Face still warm, you smile at the praise, the high from your orgasm mingling gently with the bump of pleasure her words garner. With a wicked grin she brings her bare hand to her mouth and licks her fingers clean. Her eyes linger on you all the while, and you wonder what she might be planning; there is a dangerous glint in them.

“Mmm… Now, my warrior, will you kneel for me? Would you submit all that _delightful_ power for my enjoyment?”

Oh. Your breath catches at the greedy look in her eyes. You have never seen her like this; usually she focuses primarily upon you, leaving her pleasure in your hands and praising you for offering it. She certainly _did_ enjoy watching your battle, it seems.

Eager to see more of this side of her, you nod. “Would you like that? To see the Warrior of Light on her knees… for you alone?”

By her expression, she would like that very much indeed.

She kisses you, quick and fierce, before releasing your arms from their bindings. Eagerly you sink to your knees, reaching for the hem of her robe. She shakes her head, chuckling, and her clothing mists away into darkness. For a moment you just stare, entranced. Whether by design or simply a consequence of what she had been wearing, the smoky wreaths of dark aether cling longest about her waist and breasts, leaving her first shrouded in a fulminating cloud of darkness which dissipates to cover only those parts you most wish to see. That, too, writhes away to nothing, leaving you gazing up at her in admiration, there upon your knees.

She is impetuous, leaving you little time to appreciate her form. Stepping close, she hooks one leg over your shoulder, bracing one arm on the wall over your head. Her other hand drops to the side of your face as you press between her thighs to her core. She gasps as you make contact; you know her head hangs down to watch by the brush of her hair on the top of your head. Smiling against her, you resolve to make it a show.

Your tongue swipes out to find her already drenched. With a soft moan—you _know_ what has her so aroused—you begin to plumb her with long, strong presses of your tongue. The sound she makes in response makes your cheeks burn even as it spurs your efforts higher. You would hear more sounds like that fall from her lips, and you bend your will, your energies to make it so.

Her gasps and groans are all you could ask for. Clearly the sight of you affects her as much as your ministrations do, for you have barely begun your efforts when her voice begins to pitch up. Bringing a hand up to supplement your rhythmic caresses, you drag your tongue up, slowly, parting her to flick over her clit and then swirl slowly around. Her hand upon your face clenches in time with her soft cries. Fingernails press—not so much cruel as needy, desperate—and you hum as you purse your lips about her and suck.

You did not misjudge. Some concatenation of your ministrations, the sight of you on your knees, the _memory_ of your victory over Ravana has her already at the edge. Her voice jumps an octave as she falls half against the wall and sobs your name. You redouble your touches, face burning at the sinful sounds your lips make on her drenched flesh… but who is there to judge you? You _slay_ gods. Here, there is only the two of you, and neither is inclined to be judgmental at the moment, with pleasure scouring your veins. She breaks upon you, undone by her need, _remade_ by your willing acquiescence as you lave attention upon her, drawing her peak out to _your_ satisfaction. When her legs give, you catch her, draw her down beside you.

You seize the rare opportunity to hold her as she recovers, licking your lips to savor the taste of _her_ yet lingering there. She clings to you, needy, still overwhelmed, and you smile.

“Are you all right?”

“More than,” she affirms, her voice even huskier than usual. You cannot prevent your smile from breaking free as you settle close to her, for once basking in heat as she burns.

For you.

Eventually she sighs against your throat, plainly sated. Her voice, when she speaks, is rougher than usual. "When next we meet… I do not know if I can guarantee your safety."

You sigh. You have long feared that this day was drawing near. "Perhaps," you whisper, and press your face into the crook of her neck. "Is there no other way?”

She trails her fingers down your spine, long slow strokes. Even in this moment, as you frankly discuss your impending enmity, she is still tender. “I will not deviate from my path. Will you?”

Your breath catches, your eyes prick, _just,_ as your instinctive answer lodges in your throat, as her words strike you once more.

_Will_ you?

Perhaps you will.


End file.
